Cowboy poet’s schedule

5:20 am: Brew cowboy coffee, extra strong. Joke to hired man that “I’ve got a case of the zactlies.” Even though you’ve told this joke every morning since he started working here, he’ll still ask, “What’s that?” Reply: “It’s when you wake up, and your mouth tastes ‘zactly like your ass.”

5:25 am: Bowel movement.

5:30 am: Eggs.

5:45 am: Some kind of cowhand work.

11:00 am: Corn whiskey, neat.

11:06 am: Throw empty bottle at Cookie’s head; cuss him out for falling asleep before making lunch.

11:07 am: Write first poem of the day, “Cookie is a good-for-nothing layabout.” His sloth is emblematic of America’s long-term decline from greatness, for which this poem is the obvious antidote.

1:05 pm: Eat the lunch that Cookie finally finished preparing. Constantly refer to it as “dinner,” not as an insult to Cookie’s tardiness, but rather because “dinner” is a regionalism that means “lunch.”

1:30 pm: Third poem of day, “Cookie, you done good.”

1:45 pm: Lament lost way of life, drink to excess.

2:35 pm: Drunk drive to post office.

3:15 pm: Black out in McDonald’s parking lot.

5:00 pm: Don’t know.

7:00 pm: Don’t know.

10:00 pm: Don’t know.

Bonus cowboy poem!

“Windmills”

I remember Dad’s windmills.
And Grand-dad’s windmills.
They looked like windmills should.
Standing proud, like oil wells
with oscillating fan hats.
Not like today.
The windmills are too damn tall!
Global warming is a myth!
What ever happened to our way of life?